when my light is low
by WhisperedSilvers
Summary: Sometimes it was the tiniest grain of sand that made all the difference. AU —Hitsugaya/Rukia


**When my Light is Low**

 **By: WhisperedSilvers**

 **Prompt: "What's wrong with you?"**

 **Summary: Sometimes it was the tiniest grain of sand that made all the difference. AU**

* * *

It felt good. It felt _really_ good. Her fist was like hardened bone and sharp prickly wire. Her knuckles were small, hard as steel, but so very tiny. Her fist was the size of a kiwi, alabaster skin—her knuckles were throbbing. But it felt _so_ good.

Rukia Kuchiki slammed her knuckles into Gin Ichimaru's left cheek and it felt so _damn_ good.

She didn't care, she couldn't care—it was like a bright flash of lightning singed her veins when she saw him put his hands on Yuzu—Ichigo's sister. Ichigo was not there and that wasn't important at the moment, but when she saw that snake laid his hands on her—she didn't _think._

With a quick lunge, she shifted all her weight into her arm, slammed her fist into his cheek, she could feel his teeth on the upper side of his jaw through the skin, and she almost grinned.

Of course, she didn't regret it, Yuzu was gripping the back of her shirt with a white-knuckled grip, her whimpers barely audible to the roaring blood rushing in Rukia's ears. Unfortunately, the bastard's lackey called the police, tossing her in jail the same night—she could still remember Yuzu screaming after her.

Ichigo came and released her. He would scowl and growl, but there was a softening in his eyes, a pat on the head and extra treats at dinner that night. Karin wasn't always home, college was taking a lot of her time, and when she heard what happened to Yuzu, she came banging on the door—tears clouding her vision when she pulled her sister and Rukia into a hug.

The judge had demanded that she seek anger management or risk being sent to a mental hospital. Of course, she scoffed at the outright absurdity, she should've kept her mouth shut—otherwise, she wouldn't be in the facility.

The judge had taken her scoff as a challenge, with sadistic eyes and a malicious grin, he sentenced her to thirty-one days in a mental institution—there, she would seek anger management _and_ be monitored.

Preposterous.

She didn't _need_ help.

But Gin had a slick lawyer, what was his name—Aizen? The bastard. He got off scott-free, Ichigo glared at him when he smirked at Rukia—Karin, who wanted to run, but who also had more fury than fear—nearly slammed her phone in his face. When Yuzu grabbed her hand, she remembered just _why_ they were in this mess.

The bastard had convinced the judge to place her in a mental institution. Immoral didn't—couldn't—it was too good of a word to use for Gin and his lackeys.

It would be a long month.

Ichigo looked almost desperate when her parole officer came to retrieve her from the house. Her brother had died from a car accident, along with her sister when she was a child. Ichigo's father was kind enough to take her in, and Ichigo—Ichigo was her best friend. His sisters were _her_ sisters.

He looked like he was ready to cry, and of course, she had to make fun of him—the fool.

He smiled and scowled, but there weren't any tears in his eyes. It made that knot in her stomach loose. Like cold water.

"Your sisters need their idiot brother. So don't worry about me." Rukia smirked at his frown; her arms were tucked under her chest. Her backpack was sitting on the ground as the officers took her suitcases into the car.

He scowled again, orange hair messy from the harsh wind, amber orbs burning with more fire than she's ever seen him with, "When you talk like that, how can I _not_ worry?"

The corner of her lips tilted up, "Quite easily."

The trunk slammed shut and she felt an inkling of trepidation soak into her bones. She shouldn't feel scared; she was going to a hospital with people, people whom were sick—

She was terrified.

She was sane—she _knew_ she was sane or maybe she wasn't. Did sane people think they were sane, or did the insane think they were sane? Maybe it was the same.

Ichigo's eyes hardened like sap on a tree. A subtle twitch in his jaw, his voice betrayed him, despite his calm and cool stature—his voice was hoarse, cracked, "The thirty-first. I'll see you on the thirty-first."

Karin and Yuzu came rushing to hug the small woman, her heart twisted uncomfortably in her chest. She wouldn't cry, she didn't need to cry—oh, how she _wanted_ to cry.

Rukia nodded at their brother and shock blurred her senses for a split moment. Ichigo lifted his hand, his warm, callous hand, to pat her cheek—affectionately. Something hot flooded in her chest, with a tight grip it squeezed her heart, and she nearly choked.

Deliberately brushing her lashes downwards toward the floor, she crouched to slide her backpack over her shoulder. With a shuddering smile, her violet orbs glittered and pink lips burnt red, "I'll see you soon, Ichigo."

—

It was January first.

Thirty days left.

The institution looked like more of a graveyard than an actual hospital. It was cold. A type of burning cold that would sting fingers into icicles, and a flush that would have cheeks scalded. Dark brown cement with undertones of grey in a cathedral-like building, with pillars that were pointed like an arrow into hell and wide glass windows that were mirror-like—she bit the inside of her cheek.

Like a slave, she was branded with a metal band onto her right wrist. Her room didn't exactly look like a hospital room. It had wide-open windows, with natural light that filtered through the glass, white walls, and white floors. It was a cold stone bed tucked into the corner of the wall, with a small dresser and a small chester draw.

Beggars couldn't be choosers.

The officers placed her bags onto the floor and left without a word. Rukia lay on the cool bed; she shut her eyes and prayed for today to end.

—

The next morning Rukia was up before noon. The small bathroom that actually looked like a closet, was her sanctuary. She spent an hour in there, sitting in the shower, drying her skin till it was red and just looking at herself—reflection. Reflect. The mirror. She was supposed to reflect on her past actions—she scoffed. As if she needed to. It was just a bad mix up, she didn't do _anything_ wrong. She was there at the wrong time, with the wrong people. She was defending Yuzu, it's not like she purposefully wanted to hurt Gin—she shook her head—that was a lie. She really did _want_ to hurt Gin.

Rukia left her room with ripped jeans and a white sweater. Wanting to explore the madhouse, she decided to get lost—skipping breakfast, she walked up two flights of stairs.

She almost didn't duck when a patient threw a glass plate at her head, said patient was screaming like the devil. She blinked before shaking her head, leaving that floor with thoughts of incredulity. The dark-haired woman walked through the corridors, ultimately she was bored—her _session_ didn't start until tomorrow.

Rukia somehow ended up along the roof, it was bitterly cold, but she couldn't seem to care. She liked the cold. It was snowing, it wasn't flakes of snow, it was wet snow, and she wasn't wearing a jacket. The cold splash of water burnt her skin, a cold burn that blistered her—numbing her fingers and sharpening icicles in the strands of her hair.

The sky was dark and grey. With no sunlight, everything was faded—like a storm, tension, and even more tension, coiling with pressure that threatened to burst. There were metal tables scattered along the roof, along with connected tables. An umbrella in the hole of the table and concrete floors—there was a swing that was taped with cushion—not the type of swings you would see at a playground, but a kind of swing that was meant to sleep in.

Rukia walked towards the rail of the roof, a thick metal pole that curled around the edges of the roof in a protective border. She leaned over the rail, her elbows and forearms pressed against the bitingly cool metal.

The trees from beneath looked like hairbrushes with green bristles—it was so high. The ground was almost a muddy brown, with specks of green strands of grass, she couldn't tell where the pathway began and where it ended. The institution became more and more draining as she looked over at the horizon.

"Are you going to kill yourself?" A voice broke her morbid thoughts, stunned, she turned around to see a man with hair whiter than snow and teal orbs that looked more like gems laying on the swing, a fleecy green jacket covering his upper body and dark blue jeans. He looked uncaring, partially curious and partially languid.

Rukia's eyebrow twitched at the question, "No."

"So then why do you come to the roof," He flickered his eyes over to the rail, "And lean over the rail, while it's blistering cold?"

She shrugged, her violet orbs calculating, "I like the cold."

He raised his silver eyebrows, he sat up and looked at her, "You're no stranger than me."

Rukia took that as an invitation to sit next to him, what was he going to do even if he didn't mean it? The cushion was warm due to the previous body that warmed the pad. She leaned into the swing, and the man beside her pushed his weight into his heel and then into his toes, the lulling motion didn't burn her skin with the way the wind was blowing.

"So," Rukia started off, "What's wrong with you?"

He smirked, "Lots of things."

She stared at him and she wondered if that was supposed to scare her.

"What's wrong with you?"

She pursed her lips, "Something."

He laughed and she remembered she wasn't supposed to be amazed at the sound. Rukia turned her head to face the greying clouds before she felt a warm weight rest on her. Lilac-orbs blinked before she quickly looked at her shoulders—his jacket. Her eyes were wide and her breath caught in her throat.

When she turned to face him, he was wearing a black long-sleeved shirt, a stark contrast to his white hair.

"Toushiro Hitsugaya." He said.

A breath, "Rukia Kuchiki."

And suddenly, a month felt too short.

* * *

 **A repost from my Anthology.**

 **A follow-up maybe?**

As always, please review.


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